The Major and the Librarian
by DucatiGrl
Summary: We'd been almost shot down by an alien drone and John clearly had questions but the presence of the general and his military training prevented him from blurting them out. His eyes were wild when he turned to me. "Librarian?" he asked, shocked, still thinking it was my lame cover story. I smiled sheepishly and wondered just how weird the conversation before bed was going to get.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: A Very Good Place to Start

My amazing love story that spans two galaxies begins when I met my boss in the most mundane way possible. You'd think it would start with my husband, but no, the story really starts with the boss, because if I'd never met my boss, I wouldn't have gotten my weird classified day job, and if I'd never gotten my weird classified day job, I would have never been reassigned and met the husband. So really, my boss ended up being a fantastic friend, almost my older brother, and he's the reason that my life was so wondrous.

My boss is kind of hard to explain. He's unique and yet at the same time a stereotype, a classic example of an absent-minded professor, too smart for his own good. He forgets the little day-to-day details – like he forgets which coffee cup is new, and by "new" I mean not left there since last week. Seriously, my first week I saw him sip a styrofoam cup that had evaporation rings inside – he noticed, which I took as a good sign of his sanity, and I'll never not laugh at the expression on his disgusted face.

But the big details, the man doesn't forget. He is a legend, my boss.

Well. A very highly classified legend.

And he's the reason that I met my husband and my life changed so wondrously. So you'll forgive me if I wax eloquently about him nostalgically, and brag a bit, because he's also become like my older brother.

He's the man that solved the riddle of the Stargate, the riddle that hundreds of the world's top scientific minds couldn't see after studying it for decades. He plunged into the wormhole on the first go. He stayed on the other side, married, and returned to save the planet. He and his best friend, the unlikely combination of absent-minded linguistic genius and Air Force colonel, had literally saved the planet countless times from alien threats. In fact, they counted an alien as one of their best friends too.

Of course, I didn't know this at the time I met him. I was just one of the billions of innocent lives on the planet Earth, going about my business as if I knew everything, as if I had everything figured out, as if I was certain there was no such thing as extra-terrestrial life, let along weird snake-like parasites that enjoyed taking you over and making you do horrible things, or little tiny robots hell-bent on destruction, or life-sucking aliens from another galaxy who considered humans nothing more than livestock. Or, you know, that the famous Roswell grey alien was from a race called the Asgards and they've been benevolently watching over us for centuries.

No, I was completely oblivious to all that and just bee-bopped my way through college, earned a triple major in Classical Studies, Latin, and Archaeology from the University of Wyoming, went to Italy eager to ply my trade and found out I didn't really like Italian archaeology that much. But here I was with very specialized degrees in the classic world.

Since I had no interest in medicine, at my dad Tom's suggestion, I applied to get a Masters in Library Science. He figured a brain as big as mine (his words, not mine) ought to be helpful to scholars. So we did a little research and settled on Colorado University in Boulder. I dug in, and graduated in two years with an end degree in my field – I would have gone on to get a doctorate at that point, but no need in libraries unless you go super specialist, and I was already up to my eyeballs in college loans. And then after I graduated from Colorado, I kind of had a "now what" moment. I was 25, with a lot of degrees, and a lot of debt.

I was hired in the public library system in Colorado Springs, and excitedly I went to work. My dad and a couple of the hands drove down to help me move, of course, and settle in to a little one bedroom apartment near work. Six months later, my life would change irrevocably, my entire conception of the universe would stand on end, and I would experience the magic, the wonder and the joy of discovery, working for some of the best minds as they explored the galaxy. But how I got to that wonderment started in one of the most mundane ways imaginable, and at one of the most mundane of places.

It all starts at the Coffee Barn.

*** SGA ***

Four months after I had moved to Colorado Springs, I was admittedly a bit bored at work but knew I had to get some experience and work my way up to a university library system. I mean a girl had to start somewhere, right? I parked my little Jeep in the parking lot of the library and walked across the street to the Coffee Barn for breakfast. And it was there, in the Coffee Barn, the second most momentous thing in my life happened to me.

A very skeptical man in a suit was in front of me in line, debating loudly with his friend about the existence of aliens. I rolled my eyes, unable to help it. Sure, I was a bit of a skeptic too (if I ever fought with my father about something it was whether there was a god), but still, you can't prove that something doesn't exist. You have to prove it exists. It's basic science – it's not even basic science, it's simply logic. Seriously, if that was the case, then a lot of things we take for granted can't possibly exist.

I might be getting a bit semantic and philosophical – sorry. That happens.

Anyway, the man moved off, and I stepped up in line, but heard a derisive snort behind me. There was another man there, of medium height and medium build, wearing wire rimmed glasses with a pair of jeans and a no-nonsense plain v-neck sweater. I smiled at him over my shoulder. "Personally," I said cheerfully, "I don't have time for someone who doesn't believe in aliens and unicorns."

He smiled at that, said "you have no idea how true that statement is," pushed his glasses up his nose, and we struck up a conversation, and he bought me my morning latte. He introduced himself as Daniel, and I introduced myself as Epiphany, and he got a funny look on his face, and I readied myself with one of several retorts I had in my quiver to answer the inevitable _oh my god, did your mother hate you_ that I was sure would come out of his mouth. He said something I'd never heard before, however. "You must be Scottish?"

I blinked, and looked at him again. "Yes, actually."

He nodded, placing it. "Sorry, I'm a linguist. I love languages."

So we ended our little conversation and went our separate ways, and I thought nothing of the exchange, other than I thought he was cute if a bit serious, and better older brother material than romantic. Still, it would be nice to make a friend outside of work in a new city.

I shelved and catalogued and assisted in homework projects, and a few days later ran into Daniel again at the Coffee Barn. This time he was in a black t-shirt and green military cargo pants, dressed like he was in the Army right down to the nearly worn out combat boots. I looked at him, surprised. "I didn't realize you were military."

He looked at me oddly, his hands in his pants. "I'm not." He saw my eyebrows knit in confusion, shot me a confused look, and glanced down when my eyes did to observe his obviously military uniform. "Oh! Sorry, no, I'm a consultant."

"A linguist," I said, and I'm sure my tone conveyed my disbelief, "as a military consultant."

He smiled that typical Dr. Jackson smile. "You'd be surprised how handy a cultural anthropologist can be, Epiphany."

We chatted some more, as I was quite curious about how, exactly, a cultural anthropologist slash archaeologist slash linguist could be handy to the military. Unfortunately, I kept asking questions that he had trouble answering with anything other than "sorry, that's classified."

Still. I bid him good day at his classified job and headed off to my distinctly un-classified one.

We went on like this, trading comments every few days in line. A couple months after I met him, on a Saturday morning, I caught him reading a book in the corner of the Coffee Barn, his face a study of concentration so complete the world was shut out, and after I retrieved my latte, I glanced at the title and frowned. That was Latin, but – I mean, surely I hadn't lost the language in the two years since I studied it. "'Atlantis and the Sister Cities of the' – man, I'm out of practice already."

I had startled him. He swiftly clapped the book closed and slid it into his backpack almost as fast as a magician, and looked at me in a new light, almost suspicious, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to take me. His body language was rigid, on alert, in fight or flight mode, and later I realized his hand was still in his bag. "You speak –" His eyes darted around, clearly unwilling to say it out loud, hinting that I knew what he was talking about.

Of course, I should mention that I am completely oblivious to most social clues, and at the time, I just thought that he was looking at me oddly. As per usual, I completely missed the subtext, so I smiled with a small laugh. "I know, right, it's not everyday you meet someone with a degree in Latin, sorry, I startled you."

And his head cocked to the side, as if he'd never really looked at me, and he stood up quite abruptly, his book bag going with him in a smooth practiced motion and he moved powerfully but a bit awkwardly around the little table. "You speak Latin."

I nodded, pointed at myself. "Majored in Classical Studies and Latin."

And like that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the Coffee Barn. Nonplussed, I watched after him, surprised he left without saying goodbye. I saw he'd left his drink, picked it up, ran after him, but he was already in an ancient pick up truck and driving off quickly, all kinds of Air Force and military stickers in the back window. I watched him drive off, holding his half a drink, a bit stunned, really, bordering on irritated, if I'm honest.

"Since when is Latin so controversial," I muttered to myself and threw out his half-drunk latte.

That next Monday afternoon, I went to the bathroom and came back to a voice mail from someone claiming to be General George Hammond, asking if I would be interested in interviewing for a position at Norad. I snorted, rolled my eyes, and pressed 7 to delete the message, picked up the post-it note on which I'd scribbled the phone number, and chucked it out too.

Yes, I was fresh out of school, but if I had learned anything in two years of Masters school and six months in the public library system of Colorado Springs, it was that, contrary to the stereotypes of the uptight prudish spinster librarian with the sweater sets and the half moon reading glasses with the jeweled chain, we librarians were a pranky bunch. It got boring in libraries. And you know, to be a librarian you pretty much had to have a Masters degree, which meant that we were a _smart_ pranky bunch who specialized in researching things and reading fictional novels, from which we got ideas – lots of idea. We could get tricky. And I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, and whoever "General Hammond" was could go suck an egg, I wasn't falling for it.

That next morning I didn't see Daniel at the Coffee Barn, which wasn't unusual, I'd see him about once a week, if that, and I ate lunch outside since it was an unusually awesome day. When I returned, there was another message from "General Hammond" along the same lines, which I again deleted as amateur hour straw grasping. I mean, really, who did they think they were dealing with here? I might be the FNG, but it took more than that to get me wound up.

The next day there was a call for me on my desk line downstairs, and I happened to be there to answer. "Good afternoon, Miss Logan, my name is Captain Carter, I'm calling from the Air Force Human Resources –"

I hung up on her. I'm not gonna lie. As if the Air Force had _human resource departments_. Puh-leeze! Send me a challenge, pranksters of the Colorado Springs Public Library! I wasn't falling for the military being interested in me!

That Friday I was running late, but I still had five minutes until I needed to clock in. I decided to risk it and dashed across the street, my backpack bouncing, and got in line, smiled at the barista, placed my order for a sugar free vanilla latte, and paid, moved to the side. I waved when I saw my new friend walk in. "Mornin' Daniel."

"Hey." He looked surprised to see me. "What are you doing here, I thought."

I wasn't yet experienced with Daniel's odd behavior quirks, so I waited impatiently for about half a second for him to finish his thought. "Yes?"

He frowned, confused, looked over his shoulder as if looking for someone to answer his questions. His head leaned forward in a quizzical motion that I would become very familiar with shortly. "Didn't you get a phone call?"

"Oh that." I waved my hand dismissively, rolling my eyes, and took my cup with a grin. "I can smell a prank like that a mile away, that was total amateur hour. Running late, see you later!"

You'll have noted my cluelessness again, of course – how could the guy from the Coffee Barn possibly know that I'd been receiving prank phone calls at work? Sometimes I even amaze myself.

I was on the front customer service desk that morning. Our library had been designed for free by a famous architect from the city, so it had a wide open plan, and fantastic windows. I could see outside three quarters of the library from the customer service desk, if I stood on my toes of course, and into the parking lot. It was one of those glorious days in Colorado – not too hot, not too cold, sunshiney and it just made you want to go outdoors.

So I might have been leaning on an elbow daydreaming when everyone – all the library workers and the patrons alike – saw the three long sleek black Suburban trucks pull up to the No Loading zone right out front of the library and park like they owned the place. I straightened immediately, startled, and had the inane thought that surely they'd send a memo around if we were expecting the President.

We all watched as a smartly dressed MP leapt out of the center truck and opened the door, snapping off a textbook salute. I stared, astonished, as a three star general stepped out and donned his hat, saluting back to the MP. And my jaw dropped inelegantly as a second person slid out of the truck – my new friend Daniel, in his jeans and his no-nonsense v-neck sweater.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: My Normal in a Very Weird Place to Work

Which was how I arrived at the SGC, working for _the_ Dr. Daniel Jackson. That's right – odd little absent-minded professor Daniel from the Coffee Barn was none other than one of the bravest explorers the world will never know. I was one of the first librarians they hired for the SGC, and I worked for Daniel exclusively. Others were hired – there was a librarian for the chemistry department, the astrophysicists, the biologists, and the medical team. I didn't really get to hang out with them much – you know, that whole tired "hard science vs. soft science" debate. And if I really wanted to get sniffy, all of those librarians weren't necessarily proper librarians—they all had PhDs in their field but not the specialized Library Science degree, so they kind of looked down their noses a bit at me as much as I did to them.

And it didn't help that Daniel and I were some of the youngest people in the science department, even if he was one of the most prominent. Ageism is a thing, you know.

In any case, I spent three blissful years working for Daniel. I had a strict agreement with him before I got hired, and I made that absolutely clear to General Hammond too: no going off world. I mean, seriously, I am not a Mary Sue, not even remotely close. I am clumsy, I am clueless as you've noticed, and according to Major Evan Lorne, I am also a jinx – but he only said that because I accidentally shot him in the butt with a zat during mandatory weapons training. Which, apparently, I was excused from ever having to attend again, mostly for everyone's safety, I think.

If I haven't made it clear enough that I'm completely clueless, by the way, here's another example: Lt. Baker asked if I wanted to drive in to the city and see the Broncos game with him, and I just said I don't like football and thanked him politely, not realizing he'd been red-faced nervous and stammering, asking me on a for-real date. See? Clueless. My friend Nancy and Major Lorne had howled with laughter at my expense at that one. And Lieutenant Baker was kinda cute, too, though I did spend several very embarrassed months working very hard to avoid him because I was too horrified at my own behavior.

Seriously, I have read enough Wormhole X-treme fanfiction to know the Mary Sue stereotype. I am not a mild-mannered librarian by day, exotic stripper by night, with black belts in jiujitsu and krav maga, and a bloodthirsty knack for building explosives because one of my former patrons was a bit of a whack job and I helped research it that one time.

Speaking of Wormhole X-treme fan fiction, that show is based loosely on my job. The two main characters in that show are based on my boss, Dr. Daniel Jackson, and his best friend, the newly made General Jack O'Neil. You try sitting in a meeting with them trying to get _those_ images out of your head.

But I digress.

Every night before I leave for work, I tidy up my desk in the archives. It wasn't really a library per se, really, though it wasn't really artifact storage either. I had two systems – the regular system with a database in my computer so I could find things the normal way, and then everything was physically stored in Daniel's way. At times I felt like I was cataloging Daniel's brain. Seriously, I had to learn to speak Dr. Jackson. For example, on this particular morning, I arrived at work expecting my neat and tidy desk but found it piled with two scrolls and a couple of books. Which meant Daniel had worked late again.

Here's where learning to speak Dr. Jackson came in handy. There was a note attached to the first scroll with a rubber band, and the notes were always in the same format: "EL, please file with Orange, thanks, DJ." The second scroll had a binder clip precariously holding the whole thing together on the end, which made me wince a bit about preserving it; Daniel was good about not using tape but we differed on the binder clip and whether it was destructive or not. The note read "EL, tell Dr. Montag he got the translation wrong again, please correct middle section, priority 2, need tomorrow, thanks, DJ."

The books were also labeled, one had a rubber band around it with a note that said "priority green, need summary tomorrow" and the second one said "priority 10, need tomorrow" with no other indication what I was supposed to do with it.

His priority notes were the best. I wondered if he was joking sometimes. "Priority blue, need tomorrow" and "need tomorrow, priority 6" were personal favorites, mostly because blue was my favorite color and 6 was just the weirdest number for a priority note.

So I picked up the scroll that needed to be filed with Orange, and sighed as I walked through the large room filled with shelves to the end of the unit marked "Orange" with a sign pointing left, and under it "E" pointing right. I dutifully filed the scroll on the Orange shelf, which held, in addition to several other scrolls: a tea pot, a weird sword-looking kind of weapon, an Ancient handheld scanner something or other, a creepy teddy bear that predated me but that always gave me a bit of the heebie jeebies and that I refused to touch, and some books ranging in topic from ants to weaponry in about ten different languages.

My hand brushed the scanner, and it lit up. I leapt to high heaven, let out a tiny shriek, and winced, turning my shoulder to it as if expecting a blow. When nothing else happened, I opened one eye, looked around, and then breathed a sigh of relief. I used a book to push it back better on the shelf cautiously, afraid to touch it again.

I _hated_ anything to do with the technology of the ancient beings that had been unimaginatively dubbed the Ancients. They were the gate builders. I loved reading about them of course, especially their art and poetry and fiction, and I could translate nearly as well as Daniel, seeing as he had taught me and their language was very close to Latin. But he never believed me about the lights. I used to go and complain to him about it. He'd come hurrying in, very concerned that there was working alien tech in his archives, and while I stood hiding at the top of the stacks shaking in my sheepskin boots (it was seriously cold 37 floors under the mountains), he'd nervously prod the device with a pencil, then a finger, then pick it up, roll his eyes, shake it, poke fingers sarcastically at it while glaring at me, and put it back on the shelf in exasperation at my jumpiness.

And usually on the wrong shelf, so I had to nervously walk down the stacks, stare at it, and pick it up, lights blinking furiously, to put it back where it belonged.

So I stopped complaining about them to him, even after I accidentally stunned myself, which is what I presume I did after I woke up ten feet away from where I had been, and I definitely received regular shocks from the one filed in Blue. I was seriously about to bring in a pair of heavy leather gardening gloves to avoid any further accidental touching.

Anyway, I returned to my desk, took the scroll that had been translated incorrectly to the lab table near my desk, spread it out and used four handy rocks that Daniel had kindly brought for me from off world, and I went about fixing Dr. Montag's translation. Dr. Montag was a lovely man who otherwise had it in for Daniel, mostly because Daniel was just 34 and Dr. Montag was 55 and thought that simply by seniority, he ought to be in charge.

I went with what my boss said, shook my head at Dr. Montag's bad translation, corrected it, and emailed it to him with a pleasant note taking the blame and the sting out of the error, copying Daniel of course, and then based on the scroll text, I filed it under Buffalo.

I know. Don't ask, because I can't really explain it.

Daniel came in, wearing a pair of quite muddy BDU pants and a black t-shirt, his feet in flip flops. "Epie," he called loudly, his eyes on a stone tool he was turning in his hands, not realizing that I was sitting at my desk and he had literally just shouted at me. He pushed up his glasses, and looked at me oddly, as if he was wondering what I was doing sitting at my desk like a normal person ought to be doing.

"Good morning, Daniel," I said easily, as if my boss hadn't turned the corner shouting, and held out a cup of coffee for him.

"Oh you are a gem among angels," he said in Ancient Greek, and traded the stone tool for the cup. "File that with L, will you? And did you get the general's memo? Oh." He frowned, one of his tells, and shook his head finger several times but not in a chastising way, more tapping a finger to his forehead until he thought of what it was that escaped him. It was one of Daniel's _wait a minute I'm thinking_ habits, so I waited a minute and let him think. He smiled, snapped his fingers, and pointed at me, rather proud of himself. "Happy birthday, Epiphany Modesty Logan."

I smiled back gracefully. I should have never told him my full name – the linguist just loved it. "Thank you, Daniel."

"That wasn't what the general's memo was about though." He nodded. "It was the going to Antarctica thing."

I blinked. "The going to where thing?"

His eyes darted to the side and back, as if remembering the supposed prank that had gotten me hired. "The memo? From Jack – I mean, General O'Neil?"

I worked on a military base, so I got memos. I got more memos from the general – I got memos from the general out the yin yang, though admittedly they'd slowed down a bit since Hammond had retired. I pointed to my Outlook. "I have a rule set up, all the memos are sent into a folder."

He leaned over my chair familiarly, a bit of an elder brother to me. He snorted at the folder in bold, showing 588 unread messages from the General. "Epie," he said, clearly amused but chastising as well.

I shot him a knowing look and clicked on the folder. It popped up in my lists, and all we saw were about a hundred emails, all starting with "MEMO FROM THE GENERAL:" and the first letter of the subject line.

Daniel straightened with a smirk. "Yeah, I know," he said, sighing as he spoke through his teeth in a typical Dr. Jackson tone of voice. "Jack told off his aide-de-camp and said he didn't care anymore, so the captain is doing this blind." He winked. "I sent a memo to them both about the subject lines getting a bit out of control." He reached over, took the mouse, and widened the subject list.

Most of them were the things you'd expect – parking notices, quarantine procedures, IOA visits, inoculation requirements, zat guns aren't toys, testing the oxygen venting defense system Saturday so stay home or you'll die, please don't use alien tech in the hallways without authorization – that kind of thing, I'm sure you have them at your job too.

Daniel clicked on a memo that was three weeks old. "MEMO FROM THE GENERAL: list of personnel required to report to McMurdo 9 May." He scrolled down and pointed to my name.

"Daniel!" I immediately protested. "You promised!"

"Ah, ah," he said and backed away cautiously. "I promised I wouldn't send you off world, and the last time I checked, Antarctica is still on this world."

"That's a fine line and you know it!"

He leaned on the lab table with his elbows, a pleading look on his face. "I need your help, Epie, you know I wouldn't ask if I didn't. It's a new goal of mine – we can find the lost city of Atlantis. Atlantis!"

Okay, so his theory was super cool: the ancient Greek myth of the crazy super technically advanced city of Atlantis that sank into the ocean was probably built by the gate builders, the Ancients. And like Daniel, I really wanted it to be true too. But McMurdo?

"Why Antarctica?" I am not ashamed to say that my voice was much closer to a whine than a conversational tone.

"Because we have the Ancient platform there, and Dr. Elizabeth Weir is mounting a huge expedition if we ever find it." He smiled widely at me. "And I plan on going, I want to go so badly. If we discover it, I want you to come with us."

And I admit I looked at him like he was missing a screw. "To the lost city of Atlantis. Underwater." I waved a hand airily. "I'll bring the kids."

He laughed and straightened, but pointed at me knowingly. "You're going. You have just as much at stake in this, and you are the second foremost expert on the Ancient language. We both have to go." He started to back out, wincing a little, his voice lowering in volume and speaking very fast as he turned on his heel, starting to walk away to avoid the coming argument. "Which is why you're going to Antarctica so we can find it in the first place."

I glared at the door, and got up, running after him. "Daniel!"

He was holding his hands over his ears, half trotting. "No! Nonono!"

"That's not fair!"

"No not listening, no!"

It was amazing, really, when you thought about it, how many times our conversations devolved into childish retorts. It amused the former Colonel O'Neil, Daniel's best friend, no end. Thought I didn't have much to do with O'Neil – frankly, the man was super famous, I had a bit of a fan girl thing going, and I hid when he came down to look for Daniel. I mean, seriously – Jack freakin' O'Neil! Of course he made me nervous! Luckily he didn't come down that often.

The loudspeaker clicked on. " _Dr. Jackson report to the general's office. Dr. Jackson to the general's office._ "

He brightened, whirling. "Gotta go, Epie. We'll talk later."

"Daniel!" I yelled after him, pointed at him, as if he had a death wish, and he just grinned that boyish grin at me, and ran off down the corridor.

McMurdo! Antarctica! I put a hand to my face miserably.

 _Note: to answer a few reviews, this story is already completed, so it's already finished. I'll post the whole thing. I figured before I posted anything, it needed to be complete._

 _Second, I read a lot of things, including tons of stories here on this site, and have for years and years. So if I copy something, it's COMPLETELY accidental. I'm not sure if the joke about the Wormhole X-treme slash fiction is original or not, for example. Please let me know and I'll give credit immediately._

 _Third, there was a question about the Mary Sue thing – hopefully this chapter answers that a bit (I thought it was funny that came up, because this chapter was already written, the Mary Sue jokes and all). Seriously, the whole series of series are loaded with Mary Sues, if you think about it. Anyway, my thought was she had to be smart enough to get attention, because she had to hang with Daniel, who was used to hanging with Carter. But just being smart doesn't make her Danielle 2.0– if anything, she's a bit of a chicken._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: A Helicopter Ride with Fate

Daniel had a list of things I would need and an expense check for me to cover the need for the equipment. I took the list to the local REI in Denver, and handed it sheepishly to the clerk. Unluckily it was spring in Colorado, so the things I needed couldn't be bought overnight, but hey it was the Air Force's dime, so I got rush delivery. I got kitted out with all kinds of things – a new parka, new bib overalls, new heavy mittens and fantastically warm lace up winter boots. On Daniel's recommendation, I loaded up on fleece sweaters and all kinds of layers, especially base layers.

I made the uncomfortable phone call to my father, who was understandably concerned – his only child was going to Antarctica. At least I could still email him, and my cell phone was going to be expensive but it would still work. And just like my rancher father, he reminded me to set the thermostat so the pipes wouldn't freeze and to get my Jeep stored properly for a year.

Three days later, I put all of my new equipment in a wheeled trunk, parked my Jeep in my spot and looked at it worriedly as I struggled the trunk from the back. I headed to the elevator and passed the four security check ins, and headed for the archives.

A beat up old trunk was sitting carelessly in the middle of the room, and I knew Daniel had packed. I set mine neatly next to it, having dressed at Daniel's recommendation in a pair of warm pants, the new boots, and a fleece sweater. He swung in, already dressed. "There you are, you ready?"

I motioned over our heads. "What about my car?"

His eyes darted to the side and back. "What about it?"

I wanted to hit him – but to be fair, my own dad had to remind me about my car, so I really shouldn't have been on my high horse or anything. "Daniel, we're going to be gone for a long time, you can't just leave a car sitting that long. What are you doing with your truck?"

"Oh." He sounded surprised, like I hadn't heard. "You're on the list, don't worry. Because we have so many folks coming and going, we have a long-term warehouse, just car storage. The guys in the motor pool keep everything working, and they even take care of the DMV runs for your tags." He shrugged. "They'll drive your car over tonight."

That sounded – oddly practical and extremely unusual for the military.

"Also. Because you are not used to roughing it, well." He smiled at me warmly. "I plan on sleeping in the lab, and I didn't think you'd like the idea of sleeping here in the archives."

I thought of all the weird pieces of Ancient tech in the lab and the creepy teddy bear. I had visions of the creepy teddy bear in Chuckie's overalls with a knife in his paw. And no, I really wouldn't care to sleep over in the archives, thank you very much.

"So you'll have housing on the base. It's winter, so there's only a few hundred folks on base anyway. We've got a squadron of F302 pilots there and about ten helicopter pilots from the regular base. You'll be taken back and forth from the base to the platform daily by one of the pilots, but remember he's not got clearance, okay?"

I nodded nervously. "Okay. Do we need to pack all this?" I motioned to the archives.

He waved a hand with a dismissive look. "Hermiod's got it sorted."

With that, I joined Daniel and about five others in the conference room, carrying my backpack full of notebooks and my new laptop, and bit my lower lip, ankle turning nervously. Here we go, off to Antarctica. It wasn't the first time I'd been beamed, and we appeared briefly on the deck of the military ship in orbit above the earth. I waved to the little grey alien behind the desk. "Hi Hermiod."

He nodded regally. "Epiphany."

And like that, we were transported from the dull unimaginative dark greenish grey walls of the SGC to the stark white unimaginative halls of the Antarctic Ancient weapons platform.

I stood by Daniel's elbow nervously, surrounded by all these new people and new things. It was shockingly different from the SGC, in that instead of being surrounded by the military, I was surrounded by civilians. After everyone was introduced – somehow I got lumped into the command staff, probably because I had arrived with the famous Dr. Jackson – Daniel showed me to the room that they'd just beamed his entire archives into.

It was exactly like being in the SGC, only with white walls instead of grey. Everything including Daniel's coffee pot was there. And, shockingly, it was slightly warmer. It really was cold under that mountain.

I recognized a few people from the SGC, and for lunch I joined Dr. Nancy Peterman, one of Daniel's colleagues and a staff archaeologist for the SGC. If ever there was a Mary Sue paradigm in real life, it was Nancy – she was tall, a glorious natural blonde, with shockingly blue eyes and a tanned and toned frame. She had a breezy flirtatious attitude, was at home with the guys or the girls, and in addition to earning a PhD, she'd studied tae kwon do from a young age, was working on her second degree black belt, was a standout in three sports in high school, paid for her Bachelor's with a rugby scholarship in Sydney, and just to make you sick to your stomach, in addition to the Australian accent that _all_ the guys drooled over, she could belt out a song at karaoke night like the second coming of Olivia Newton John.

Really. She was sickening, and she liked me, for some weird reason.

If she had a weakness, it was that Nancy was not only a bit of a flirt but she was a real gossip. She loved hearing the news, Nancy. So she joined me for lunch that first day in Antarctica, and I was reluctantly caught up on all the dirt – the two botanists were getting pretty chummy, and rumor had it that Lieutenant Summer and Dr. Wortman were seen diving into supply closets. Dr. Wortman was 45, and the lieutenant 23.

Which brings me to my first rule of survival in the SGC: sometimes it's just better not to know. Case in point, I didn't want to know that Dr. Wortman was a cougar. I shudder just thinking about it.

Still, it's rude to interrupt, and Nancy didn't listen to interruptions so it was pointless anyway (believe me, I tried – see my first rule of survival that I really didn't want to know). "The chopper pilots are pretty choice," she was saying around a mouthful of salad. "There's a new one, though, been here a month, I heard he's here on punishment, disobeyed an order or something. We've named him Major Hottie Pants."

I resisted the overwhelming urge to cover my face with my hands.

"Don't give me that look, we'll talk after you see him. He is aptly named. I wanted to name him 'paw print' because seriously, you can see – "

I mumbled something about going back to work, took my tray and recycled what I could, and headed off to the archives. I was just finishing up a translation for Daniel when a man in a lab coat breezed in. "Sleeve up," he said officiously.

I dutifully rolled up my right sleeve, picking up my pencil in my left and let him draw blood. Seriously, sometimes it's just better not to know.

Around five, an airman came in and nodded. "Ma'am, your transport's inbound. Be topside in ten."

I was a bit startled at that, and hastily tidied my desk, grabbed my parka and the airman took my trunk for me. I followed him nervously to the lift, and stepped into the rather large cage. I glanced at the stony faced airman, and that probably would have been the time to say something witty like "the funny thing about lifts" or something silly like "it's nice to be going up in the world." But by the time I'd thought of it, the moment was long gone, we were halfway up and saying anything at that point would have been weird and forced.

Did I mention that the elevator was big and slow? And we were really way down under the ice so the ride was long?

Awkward.

Unaware I was about to do anything remotely monumental, I stepped out into the cold and looked nervously at my surroundings – we were in an ice field. This is nuts. And then I stared in disbelief at my transport and its pilot, wearing helmet and sunglasses, standing next to it. "Ma'am," he said, nodding his head, and opened the door on the helicopter for the airman to load in the trunk. "They've listed you as priority, which is why you get a single cab, and a major and not a captain for a pilot, so I'll be your daily transport."

I blinked, startled. Since when was I priority?

I should also point out that, while I was no Mary Sue, I had my moments of bravery. I grew up on a horse farm in Wyoming, so yes I could deal with a snake (even though they gave me the squickies) and I could train a horse and camp out under the stars. And yeah, I had made state in barrel riding – don't make fun, I'm rather proud of that fact. And since the ranch was in the foothills of the mountains in Wyoming, I also knew how to ski, and I might add, ski very well.

I hadn't ever been heliskiing, though.

"No need to be scared of flying," the major called, saluting the airman, and holding open the door for me. "Let's get you settled."

I wasn't scared to fly, quite the contrary; I just wished my first trip in a helicopter wasn't over the most remote and dangerous territory on the planet Earth, during a windstorm.

The major situated me in the seatbelt and helped adjust the headphones to my ears, and suddenly I could hear his voice in my ear, a bit tinny as if from a distance rather than right next to me in the cockpit. "You okay over there? You're a bit pale."

I nodded. "Never been in a helicopter before."

"Nothing to worry about." He nodded, flipped a few switches, and radioed McMurdo to get his flight path. With that, he pushed a button and the rotors started. "Major John Sheppard. You are?"

"Epiphany Logan."

And I waited for it. I was very well adjusted to the looks that name garnered me. I'm well aware it's a whopper, thank you very much. And Major Sheppard was shooting me one of those looks right now. "Epiphany. Scottish or Irish?"

I had to smile at that, as it was rare I didn't hear _oh my god did your parents hate you_ , and I risked a glance over at him. "Scottish." It was a bit hard to see him through the helmet and the sunglasses, but he had a strong chin and a very confident bearing, and I liked his wry voice.

He nodded, pointed at himself. "Irish." And with that, we lifted off.

The wind was a bit strong for my taste, but the major was clearly a confident and expert pilot. He compensated for the wind easily enough, and settled in for the ride. "How's your first helicopter ride going?"

I smiled over at him. "Better than I expected, I thought it was windy."

He smirked "You must be new. Not so bad today, Miss Logan."

"Epiphany, please."

"Not on duty, Miss Logan." Properly chastised, I bit my lower lip, hunched my shoulders and watched Antarctica go by underneath us. He glanced at me again. "I haven't seen you before and there's no transport scheduled this week. How'd you get here?"

My eyes got wide, I'm sure, and I remembered both being beamed here by a little grey alien and Daniel's warning that the helicopter pilots didn't have security clearance. "Um," I said, rather intelligently. "You see."

I saw what I thought was an eyebrow lift then lower, but it was hard to tell with the helmet and sunglasses. "You come in through Scott?"

I had no idea that Scott meant the New Zealand base and not a specific person or even if he meant the Dread Pirate Scott, but I nodded, and looked out the window desperately trying to avoid any more small talk.

Fifteen minutes later, we landed on the edge of a slap-dash settlement of small warehouses. From the sky it didn't look like much, almost a shanty town, or like a Lego town made of mismatched shipping containers. Major Sheppard unloaded my trunk for me, made sure I was set, and pointed me in the direction of the quartermaster for my orientation tour.

You'd never know it, would you just by hearing the stories, because if you blinked, you just missed me meeting the hubs. The two most important events in my life were both by themselves rather pedestrian. If meeting Daniel at the Coffee Barn was the second most momentous event in my life, than that was the most momentous event: my helicopter ride with Fate.

Just goes to show you: keep your eyes and ears open, because you never know what just might happen to you today.

**SGA**

 _Note: not my best, but hopefully you can see some of the "normal" around the SGC, which was one of the points of Epiphany, to see that world through a Regular Jane. The main point of writing this will be explained at the end._

 _The "Major Hottie Pants" joke is an old one from college (we had a "Corporal Hottie Pants" in ROTC, who I saw all the time since I was an athletic trainer). I'm sure I've read that joke somewhere on this site, it's hardly uncommon, so I'd like to give credit – let me know._

 _And apologies about military protocol. It's a bit of a cheat. Then again, this is Stargate, people: the entire series is a cheat. If you want realism, this is probably not the place to find it._

 _Also, Dr. Nancy Peterson is based entirely on a friend of mine who is entirely that talented and disgusting, and I love her dearly (she is not, however, that much of a_ malicious _gossip, though if you need to know the news, she's your girl - and also married Corporal Hottie Pants). Love you, you know who you are!_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Worst Cover Story Ever

Daniel had swung me priority status, which meant I got a single room, and I was on the top floor of the building on the end. There was a heavy light-blocking curtain on the window, and the room was miniscule. I think my first year dorm room was actually bigger, in fact. There was a set of bunk beds, a bit narrower than usual, and a tiny desk with a little chair and a loveseat, and not much other room available, and even on my own, I had to move about sideways in spots. I wiggled my trunk in, put my clothes in the wardrobe, and stowed the trunk under the bottom bunk bed and sat down, a bit nervously.

Holy crap I was in Antarctica. What had I gotten myself into?

I set up my alarm clock, double checked the time, and got ready for bed. I settled in, and was a bit surprised when I fell asleep like a rock.

I almost wished I'd left a note for myself: _Epiphany, you're on McMurdo Base, not back in college, love Epiphany_. It was quite disorienting. I went to find the bathroom, showered swiftly as warned, and dressed hurriedly. I was to meet the major at 8 am, so as it was 7:30, I went in search of coffee.

I found the mess downstairs, which was barely a canteen at breakfast during the winter, so I grabbed a cereal bar and a cup of coffee, and looked around a bit nervously, sitting at a little café table. I ate the cereal bar, and sipped the scalding hot but good coffee and set it down to cool a bit.

And then I looked up and saw the second coming of the Irish sea god walking towards me. He was tall, in a USAF uniform and flight jacket, aviators on top of his messy hair, which looked like it was blowing in about three different directions, and even from a distance I could see that his eyes were green. He had an angular face, chiseled jaw I believe the phrase goes, and had a very rakish self-confidence about him, which frankly was even more attractive than his admittedly handsome face.

In a word, he was gorgeous, and he was walking up to me like he knew me.

"Morning Miss Logan, you're up early."

I recognized that distinctively wry voice. "Major Sheppard, I didn't recognize you without your helmet on." And then I immediately blushed at what a stupid thing that was to say. Curse you, shyness!

He smirked at me, and my first thought was that his smirk ought to be illegal in all fifty states _and_ Puerto Rico, because that was the smirkest smirk I'd ever seen smirked. It wasn't possible for it to get any smirkier. "I get that a lot. Buy you a cup of coffee?"

I held up my cup to show him. "I'm good."

He motioned politely, asking if he could join me, and I nodded, casting about for a topic. He sat down, backwards on the chair of course, and glanced at me. "I know better than to ask 'what brings you here' since everything around here is either classified or highly technical, so I'll just ask you where you're from."

I had to smile at that, sipping my coffee, which was still a bit too hot to drink. "Buckey's Ferry, Wyoming."

And that got me another odd look. "Wyoming." He weighed that, took a long drink of the coffee. "I'm not sure I've ever met anyone from Wyoming, Miss Logan."

"Well, it's one of the largest states, real estate wise," I said with a grin. "Only a million population. So 300 million in the US, let's do a little math."

He shot me a little glare. "1 in 300, hardly math. Buckey's Ferry Wyoming." He leaned into the chair back thoughtfully. "What in the hell is there to do in Buckey's Ferry?"

I smiled into my coffee cup. "You mean other than escape the first chance I got?" He laughed and nodded, and I blushed a little at making him laugh – good lord, I was working up a bit of a crush on Major Sheppard. He had to be Major Hottie Pants that Nancy was talking about. "Growing up there was awesome, Dad's got a horse farm, and we were just two hours from Jackson Hole."

And he turned, interested, and those hazel eyes bored into me. Good lord his gaze was intense, and I realized that he was a pilot, so when he focused his concentration on something, it was focused – I felt tiny and insignificant, and completely not worth it. "So you ski? I've been skiing on four continents now, but for some reason I haven't hit Jackson Hole."

"It's my favorite, but I'm a bit biased, it's my home mountain." I smiled over at him, determined to not wilt under that green gaze though my stomach was doing nervous flip flops, waiting for me to pull an Epic Epie, meaning I'd make a complete fool of myself. "Because Buckey's Ferry is just a day's drive from Sundance, Big Sur, Breckenridge, Steamboat Springs, Vail, and Park City, not to mention the big ones in Idaho."

The smirk turned into a smile. "I will not make fun of growing up in Buckey's Ferry, Miss Logan, that sounds awesome."

I nodded regally to that. "Understood. Turnabout's fair play, where are you from?"

He huffed a little sigh. "Connecticut, nothing so wild as Wyoming, I'm afraid. Rather pedestrian." He shrugged. "But the Air Force is home." He checked his watch, a rather complicated affair in a wristband, and I wondered if he had some sort of special ops training. "Five minutes, drink up."

"Oh jeez," I said with a laugh, picking up the cup and standing with him. "It's way too hot to chug."

He shot me that smirk and chugged as if in a challenge to me. "Can't take it with you, Logan."

I flushed at the nickname, though it wasn't anything but friendly if in a somewhat military fashion. Oh yes, I was definitely working on a crush on Major Sheppard. I followed him out to the airfield, the morning still dark around us because we were headed into the winter months and complete darkness. "So what brings you to Antarctica?"

He barked a laugh, opened the helicopter door for me. "I disobeyed a director order to save three lives, and was simultaneously promoted to major and punished by being sent to McMurdo." He helped me with the safety belt, smirking even as he buckled me in safely. "Joke's on the military, according to the base shrink, to whom I have to report weekly for the next 52, I am anti-social, so I kinda like it here."

I giggled at that, unable to help myself.

"I know, right?" he said with a grin, and shut the door to perform the pre-flight check.

Once we were in the air, I asked for another Captain Sheppard story, so he supplied easily enough with the time he'd been shot down in Afghanistan, and by the time he finished, I had worked up a massive crush on the good major. He was intelligent, and nice to me, and had a sarcastic sense of humor, and – if his stories were true – was _incredibly_ brave.

To a mouse like me, he was irresistible and utterly unattainable. Still, a girl can't help it. He had been aptly named, I am embarrassed to admit to Nancy, as Major Hottie Pants.

I spent the day trying not to daydream about a certain Irish major, mostly unsuccessfully. Admittedly my imagination was a wild one, so I'd already named the 2.4 kids, both cars, designed our dream house, and named the dog – all that before lunch. Oh yes, it was a full-bore crush.

On the flight back that evening, the major supervised me buckling myself in from the open cockpit door, and glanced at the pair of heavily armed military guys at the door to the base that reminded me a bit of the snow troopers from Empire Strikes Back. "I know it's classified, and I'll admit to undying curiosity but I'm not prying. Can you say what it is you do? Doctor of what?"

I shook my head. "No doctor." He was shutting the door. "Just a librarian."

I got an odd look through the cockpit window as he walked around, climbed in his side, and pulled on his helmet. His voice was tinny in my ear, like he was speaking from a mile away instead of right next to me. "Librarian." His voice was usually wry but now it was nothing short of very sarcastic. "Riiight."

I hunched my shoulders sheepishly. "I'm serious."

"A top secret librarian." He shot me a look that clearly stated he was letting me get away with it because he knew it was classified and that was my cover story – even though I didn't actually have a cover story other than that I worked for Norad, which, in my opinion, was a pretty crappy cover story. Well, not really – I just wanted a better, more exciting cover story than "librarian at Norad."

I managed a sheepish smile. "Classified top secret librarianing." I then lifted my head, squinting, immediately making a joke. "I could tell you, but I'm pretty sure I can't kill you." I indicated that he was at least a foot taller than I was.

He snickered at that and nodded. "Yeah I doubt it, between the trips to Afghanistan and the special ops training. You get much action in the 'library' business?"

I nodded seriously. "Oh my goodness, you'd never believe it. Just yesterday I got transferred to McMurdo on a classified mission."

He smirked again and shrugged, easily lifted the helicopter into the air. "Man I signed up for action and adventure, so I went to flight school. Dammit I should have gone to _library_ school." He shook his head at me and scoffed. "Librarian."

I wasn't sure if I should be insulted at that or not.

So he made me tell stories about growing up in Wyoming on a horse farm, and I told him all about it – how my dad was a horse whisperer, and we ran a dude ranch bed and breakfast, and I basically grew up a tourist exhibit, which explained a few things about me – I could demonstrate just about anything, give a talk, all of it, but I was still shy afterwards. It's a duality, I'm aware of it.

And John walked me to the right building when we landed, smiled a genuine smile. "See you tomorrow, Logan."

I waved. "Good night, Major, see you tomorrow."

And tried not to look like I was floating to my bunk.

**SGA**

 _Note: my apologies to the awesome state of Wyoming for my bad joke about your population density – those are very old stats I pulled from memory. Still, don't go changing a thing, WY. Jackson Hole is a national treasure. Buckey's Ferry, however much I'd love to live there, is completely fictional._

 _I'm trying very hard to not rewrite this as I go. It's not easy. Again, there's a purpose here. I'm trying to catch the typos but that's not easy either – thank you for your understanding._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Emergency Flight with Major Hottie Pants, or I Live a Wormhole X-treme Cliche

I'd been on the southern-most continent for a month. It's amazing how little actually changed between working in the SGC and in Antarctica. Seriously, it was like just the scenery changed. I still commuted about 30-40 minutes to work, I still snagged a coffee right before work, and even my desk had been transported from Colorado, so I was literally at the same desk doing the same job. I was even still underground –just the wall color changed.

But I had a commuting buddy now. And someone replaced Daniel as my morning coffee buddy – when I arrived in the canteen around 7:30 every morning, he was sitting there with two paper cups in front of him. The second one was for me, already cooling down so I could drink it.

I confess it embarrassed me a bit. I wasn't unhappy about it, not at all, of course. But I was still just a mouse, and he was – well. Let's be honest with ourselves and he probably wasn't interested in mice.

It was well and truly dark on the continent. We were on the verge of true winter, and though I was now comfortable with the helicopter as a mode of travel, and indeed trusted Major Sheppard implicitly as his skill was obvious, I still wasn't terribly happy with flying in the dark, though I was assured by an amused major that it was rather routine and not to worry about it.

Nancy had left to see to a dig off world, and Daniel was back at the SGC, so I ate lunch alone in the little cafeteria set up on the base. I wrinkled my nose at the meatloaf – okay seriously, we can beam people in and out, we can beam an entire library in and out, but we can't have a decent cafeteria? I'm not asking for Google Headquarters or anything but anything was better than meatloaf.

A group of women scientists sat at the table behind me, and I couldn't help but overhear. I mean, seriously, who couldn't help it – a group of six PhDs were _tittering_. I couldn't imagine a PhD tittering, let alone an MIT-trained astrophysicist acting like a preteen mooning over Teen Beat magazine. I guess that proved a bit of nature vs. nurture, right?

"I don't know, he's so friendly. He's such a flirt."

"I don't know about flirty, I think he's just friendly, all he does is call me Doc. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know anyone's name, he just calls everyone Doc."

"You're right, I can't believe I didn't notice that."

"What chance does any of us have with Nancy walking around here with her bazongas hanging out?"

I stared at what was left of my mashed potatoes, thinking I should probably defend Nancy's honor, but even she would have laughed at that. Were they talking about Major Sheppard? I should really get up and go – my long-standing rule was about to be crossed, and I really didn't want to know.

But if I was honest with myself, I really kinda did.

"Janet said she slept with him."

"If you believed her, she'd be the SGC bicycle – everyone's had a ride."

"She was talking about Major Thomas, not Major Hottie Pants. Captain Ava did sleep with Hottie Pants, she told me about it, back in Afghanistan, he broke her heart."

"He's a flirt but you can tell, he doesn't mean it. It's his personality. And he's never on time, it's annoying."

"The base admin told me he's seeing the shrink weekly, she types up the diagnoses, he's an anti-social loner with attachment issues. But," and here the PhD lowered her voice conspiratorially, "she said she went in one day with an emergency note and overheard him saying he was really attracted to someone on base and he really didn't want to screw it up."

The six PhDs immediately started tittering again, giggling like schoolgirls, and set about to figure out who it was Major Hottie Pants was interested in enough to mention her to the shrink. I just sighed, watched my fork chase a pea around what was left of my dinner plate, and glumly got up to return to my library.

What could I possibly offer anyone like Major Hottie Pants – I mean, Major Sheppard? Sure, I was in good shape, it came from having a dad like mine, and we had a great healthy lifestyle on the ranch. It's pretty rare to find a fat rancher, or at least one who actually works his ranch, "works" being the operative word. In good shape or not, though, I was far too short for the major, he was over a foot taller than me, and I was way too shy to even think about asking him out. And, from what I'd just overheard, he sounded like the sort to go though girls like sick people go through Kleenex.

Then again, every girl loves 'em tall and handsome, then add in a bit of a loner rebel personality, and though you couldn't use the words "bad boy" to talk about a major in the Air Force, he was certainly a rebel, or as much as he could get away with. So I shoved my crush aside, tried to stuff it in a box, and shelve it in Zebra with all the other miscellaneous crap in Daniel's archives.

I huffed a sigh and picked up my translation, and really didn't want to do it. I hated the technical manuals. There was an art to translating, there really was, which was what made the online translators so hilarious with their word-for-word substitutions. It was so hard without context, and I really didn't understand the special nuances of subatomic physics. Though it was about the ZPM, so it was super important, and I picked up my pencil, nose wrinkling.

"Ma'am," came Lieutenant Ford's officious voice from the doorway. "Storm is on radar, your transport is en route, be topside in fifteen minutes for emergency extraction."

Aiden was only two years younger than me, and I wish he didn't treat me like I was some super important person. "Thank you," I said nervously, and grabbed my parka.

"Major Sheppard radioed ahead, ma'am," he said, barely containing a grin. "He said to remind you to bring your emergency pack with you."

I blushed. At orientation we were issued a backpack full of life saving equipment. We were to bring that with us back and forth to the base and the outpost, and we weren't to ever forget, because Antarctica was an unforgiving place. I had already forgotten a couple of times, and it had only been a month. The first time Major Sheppard delayed my flight, and made me go back to my dorm room to get it. The second time he flew anyway, because someone else had flown me to the platform in the morning and my pack was back in the dorm, and gave me a 30 minute lecture on how many times the emergency backpack had saved a life.

Luckily I hadn't forgotten it that day, and now I realized why I was forced to bring it back and forth, so I donned it and hurried to the lift, where I found a group of scientists nervously milling around, everyone carrying backpacks. I went up in the lift, was surprised to see a group of ten of my colleagues heading for the large Canuck chopper off to the side in the wind, and then looked at the major motioning for me to hurry up. Why in the world did I have my own personal helicopter?

I took a step away from the building, pulled an Epic Epie, and promptly fell on my rear end, a combination of my innate clumsiness, the heavy emergency backpack, and the icy spot around the door. I didn't need to look up to know the major rolled his eyes and trotted forward, shouldered my pack for me, and helped me up. He put an arm around my waist, his other hand to my elbow, and hustled me to the passenger side. He stowed the pack, and for the first time in a few weeks, he buckled me in himself to make sure I was secure, then ran around the chopper and waved to the Canuck taking off.

This flight was terrifying. It was pitch black, the snow was picking up, and the major was flying entirely by radar and skill. He was also quiet, and still, and shockingly calm – I'd never seen him so at peace or comfortable. I knew he was concentrating, so I kept my terror to myself and gripped the door handle with my mittens, glad that the mittens hid the fact that I'm sure my knuckles were white.

The radio crackled. "Captain Hammersmith to Major Sheppard, be advised wind is picking up, we're about five miles ahead of you, suggest you stay as low as you're comfortable, over."

His voice when he replied was almost serene. "Major Sheppard to Captain Hammersmith, thank you for the intel, buy you a beer in twenty, over."

I swallowed nervously. Somehow his very calm demeanor made it even more nerve racking. That shouldn't happen. He should have some sign of nerves, but I would learn later that it was a trait of fighter pilots – they calmed to serenity in danger. I, however, wasn't a trained fighter pilot, so I was on the verge of freaking out – and I had plenty enough freak out to cover for his share.

And it was two o'clock in the afternoon, why was it pitch black out there!

The copter bucked to the side, and I glanced at the major, swallowing my shriek, and saw his jaw tighten but that was the only sign of nerves I saw. He flicked the radio button, his voice as calm as if ordering takeout over the phone. "Major Sheppard to Flight, we're unable to continue, request shelter in place, please advise."

What? Shelter in place? What the hell did that mean when we were in a blizzard?

.

 _Notes: apologies again about military protocol. Hung a lantern on the cliche or at least tried to. And I can't write gossips very well, so apologies about that too – it's just not in my nature._

 _Bear with me - I know it's cheesy. It's cheesy on purpose. And, you know, who doesn't like a little cheese now and then?_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Rigor Mortification

"Flight to Major Sheppard, radar indicates you are in a good place to weather the storm, please land immediately. Winds are too high to shelter in your craft, repeat, winds are too high to shelter in craft. Shelter upwind twenty yards or more. Do you copy?"

Amazingly the major was landing in that storm, in the pitch black, in the wind, in a _blizzard_ , while communicating with the tower. "Major Sheppard to Flight, copy that, we will shelter twenty yards upwind of the craft which at present." He paused, setting the helicopter gently down, amazing in the conditions, and glanced at his compass. "Is heading 133. Time of the storm?"

"Flight to Major Sheppard, heading 133 marked for rescue. Storm is projected to continue for 12 hours maximum, we'll send a rescue team when we can. Good luck."

"Major Sheppard to flight, copy that, see you tomorrow." He looked at me seriously, and spoke loudly over the raging storm while he reached back to put on his heavy weight gear. "Do not leave this cockpit until I come and get you. I am going to anchor the helicopter to the ground, you will hear what sounds like gunshots. Do not be alarmed. I will then go build a shelter and come back for you. Do not leave this craft."

I nodded, too scared to speak, and I'm sure my face was as white as the blizzard around us. As the final piece of his equipment, he donned a safety harness, clipped a red safety mooring line to his belt, and without even the slightest hesitation, slipped into the blizzard and shut the door behind him.

It was the oddest sensation, sitting in that quiet copter by myself, the wind howling outside, sometimes strong enough to rock the craft. It was dark, and I had weird thoughts of the minoch scene from Empire Strikes Back and I half expected to see Han Solo riding up on a tauntaun, which brought to mind the snow creature that attacked Luke and I tried not to hyperventilate. I heard what sounded like a gun, and started, whirling towards the sound, and was glad the major had warned me. I heard a second boom, and then shrieked when a gust seemed to lift the copter like a jeep taking a turn on two wheels. I was lifted at an angle in the air, my eyes pancake wide.

And someone jumped up on the skid beside me, and it was the major, his body weight bringing the copter back down to level, and he leaned over like nothing extraordinary just happened, like he hadn't prevented me from injury and saved a million dollar helicopter from tipping, and I watched as he took what looked like a pneumatic something or other and I realized he was shooting anchors into the ice to keep the copter from lifting like it just had in the high winds.

He opened the door, and smiled, and I couldn't believe it, he looked like he was having the time of his life. "Copter's safe for now," he called over the raging storm, panting slightly, and reached for his gear bag. "It's going to take me a while to get this built. Stay here, don't come help, don't leave that seat. I'll be back to come get you. Get all your gear on." Inexplicably he winked. "I've survived worse than this, Logan, don't worry."

I nodded again, still scared, and watched as he shut the door and disappeared into the dark, and all I saw from the lights of the copter was about two feet of the red safety line heading into the darkness. I wished I had checked my watch, just to give a sense of reality to the dread that was sitting in the copter by myself, staring almost obsessively at that red tape. Now that I'm safe, of course, I wonder why I stared at it like a lifeline – probably because that's exactly what it was. Without Major Sheppard, I stood no chance of surviving the night.

It could have been hours, or minutes, I had lost all sense of time in that dark cage being buffeted around, and it was starting to get cold despite my gear. I ensured all my gear was on, and wondered if this was what it was like going cage diving with sharks, and half expected to see a shark swimming by outside.

And the major scared me half to death knocking on the door, looking like an abominable snowman. He opened the door and grabbed my emergency pack and he secured the copter, and put a safety harness on me with a life line from him to me, and with his arm linked with mine, we headed into the snow.

It was hard going into the wind, and I felt like I was bent at a 45 degree angle just to bear it. The snow wasn't hard packed or ice, and with every step I sank up to my knees, so every step was a struggle in the drifts, and even the major was struggling, though he was carrying some of my weight. He was counting steps, I realized, and I looked around, and there was literally nothing around us. The steps he'd taken to get back had already been filled. I couldn't see the copter, I couldn't see the tent, all I could feel was his arm linked to mine and see the beam of his flashlight. Twenty yards – it might as well have been twenty miles, I couldn't see two feet in front of my face. Now I knew what those red lines were for – we could literally pass within ten feet of the tent without seeing it.

My heart was simultaneously in my throat and pounding in my chest, and I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. It was the weirdest sensation to be working hard enough to sweat and yet be freezing cold at the same time. It's the paradox of overheating in the Antarctic. The major corrected course, it was hard to navigate in the dark, and we arrived at the little cheerfully glowing yellow tent and I have never, ever been so happy to see such a sight.

It was both bigger and smaller than I thought – low to handle the wind, of course, and it looked rather more sturdy than a regular old camping tent, and I wondered at the tall neon orange PVC pipe into the sky until I realized it was an oxygen tube in case the tent was covered in snow and started hyperventilating as he pushed me inside and zipped up behind us. He pushed off his hood, inexplicably smiling, his cheeks shining red with exertion and windburn. "Hard part's over, Logan. This tent's designed for this sort of thing." He pointed to the two sort of rooms the tent made. "Dry area and wet area. We need to drop all the wet things in here, getting anything wet in the dry area tonight is going to be dangerous. It's going to be cold and yes." He looked at me knowingly. "We are completely buddy sleeping. Strip."

Oh yes. Just what I wanted, all three of us – me, my massive crush on the major, and the major himself – in a two-man tent during a blizzard, cozy and snuggled up buddy sleeping in our underwear. This was a cliché right out of every bad piece of science fiction I'd ever enjoyed. In fact it was so cliché, I'm not sure Wormhole X-treme would have touched it, though maybe they did, I can't remember. In any case, this was going to be miserable and there was no way I was going to be able to hide the fact that I had the hots for the major.

I hung up my coat on a line that had been strung for this sort of thing, following the major's example, and he had me slide my snowy bibs down to my ankles and sit my butt in the dry part of the tent. He undid my boots so I could just swing my feet into the tent. He glanced at me, motioning with a jerk of his chin. "There's two sleeping bags in your pack, two in mine, get all four out."

Shivering, I did as told, frozen fingers having trouble with the little knots in the ropes until a knife reached over and carelessly cut it. "Survival means not being nice," he said with a reassuring smile, and quickly had the first bag resting on insulated mats, and motioned for me to crawl into one. "Dinner first, something with a lot of calories, we'll need the extra heat."

The major was really good at this. He pulled out the camp stove and glanced at me, setting it up. "Okay I don't know what you do with your top secret librarianing out there, but a flameless camp stove is seriously cool tech."

I smirked at that, and he grinned. "Oh I know cool tech."

He held up a finger and cut me off. "You've got hypothermia, Logan, your inhibitions will lower, it's a lot like being drunk, and you've got a top secret job. Take a minute to think before you speak."

Wow he was right, I was just about to blurt out a few mind blowing items, like the Star Trek-style beaming tech we now had. I put a hand to my forehead, slightly dizzy. I'd never been drunk, but I did feel a bit like when I'd had the flu and a high fever – when I turned my head, it was like the world caught up a second later. Oh great. Lowered inhibitions, a crush on the major, buddy sleeping, and the potential appearance of Epic Epie – what could possibly go wrong?

He warmed me up with a beef stew, made me eat dessert, and then he glanced at me, standing up. "Down to base layer, Logan. We're about to get real close."

My nose wrinkled but I was too cold to protest. I dropped my fleece on the pack and he busied himself zipping the bags together and hanging up the breathing film, a handy invention to help keep our breath from condensing on the inside of the tent and helping it stay about fifteen degrees warmer, which wasn't terribly reassuring when it was already negative 30 out. I was kind of glad it was dark outside, because I couldn't watch how far up the snow was getting on the side of the tent.

The major motioned. "In you get."

So my crush on the major and I slid into the sleeping bag, my face bright red in embarrassment, feeling him turn off the camp stove and turn on a battery powered lantern that let off a pleasant glow, and he slid into the bag with me, pulled the fourth bag over us like a blanket, and unceremoniously wiggled to me, his chest to my back. "Damn, Logan, you're cold, why didn't you say something?"

"It's cold out there, seemed a bit silly to point out."

He weighed that, and resettled his head. "Well I got you. I promise I won't let anything happen to you."

I nodded at that. "I'm really glad you're here, Major."

"We're cuddled up in our underwear in a raging blizzard, I think we can dispense with the formalities, call me John."

I flushed despite myself, my crush still raging. It was supposed to be boxed up and catalogued in the Zebra section, but it looks like it escaped. I'll file it with that creepy teddy bear in Orange, it'll be too scared to leave the box. "Then call me Epiphany."

He shook his head. "You need a nickname with a name like that. Epiphany. It's a bit dear for everyday wear, as my grandfather would say."

"Everyone calls me Epie."

"Epie?" He snorted. "That's cute for a girl, but you're most definitely a woman." And then he cleared his throat uncomfortably, like he couldn't believe he'd just said that. "I'll stick with Logan."

And his arms snaked around my waist, and I started, and scrambled forward, surprised by the forward move, though the bag only let me scoot forward about 8 inches.

I could _feel_ John's eye roll, I didn't need to see it. "Holy crap, Logan, we're in a survival situation. Seriously. It's buddy sleeping." He propped himself up on an elbow. "You're making me crazy, you've been avoiding me. What am I doing wrong? Am I really that distasteful?"

I'm sure in the safety of your living room or wherever you are, it's easy to come up with several things to say to cover my actions, and point out the bit about me avoiding him and "what am I doing wrong," which I'm sure slipped out because John was probably a bit hypothermic too and suffering his own lowered inhibition problem. It's easy, when you're safe and warm, to say that I should have looked over my shoulder coquettishly, flutter my eyelids, and purr in a suggestive voice, "on the contrary, John, I find you quite tasty" and snog him senseless.

But you know me better than that by now. I am ashamed and embarrassed to report that what I actually did in my questionable state, which left me without even my usual set of admittedly flimsy social filters, was blurt out, "distasteful? Are you kidding, you're _gorgeous_!" And then I gasped, clapped both my hands to my mouth, changed my mind and dove under the sleeping bag and then put my arms over my head like I was protecting myself from blows instead of rigor mortification.

Epic Epie strikes again.

And behind me, a rather stunned Major Sheppard had to process that in his own cold state, though he had been in the military since he was 18, so he was much better at this than I was, and he started to laugh. "Logan! What the hell!"

.

 _Notes: I've been cold weather camping, but by cold I mean trapped in the mountains in 40 degree weather, so I have no experience in seriously cold weather camping. I'll sort of have more in about a year and a half, when my trip to Everest Base Camp occurs (nature and world affairs willing – keep your fingers crossed). So no, I'm making this crap up as I go along, and since this is the Stargate Universe, I can totally pretend like this stuff is for real._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: Cupid's Submachine Gun

I sank deeper into the sleeping bag, wishing it would swallow me up. If there was a god in heaven, I prayed fervently, please let him create a pit and swallow me whole. Alas, no pit swallowed me whole, as I kept hearing John laughing, and I realized there was no god – or at least not a god that was going to answer the prayers of the mortally mortified.

I felt someone pulling at the top of the sleeping bag, and too late, I realized I hadn't gripped it firmly to prevent this, and strong lithe hands that I couldn't resist pulled me up and rolled me over to face him, and I was unable to lift my eyes to look at him and stared at his neck instead.

"That face," he said with that smirk that I hated so much and that ought to be illegal, "is a _very_ entertaining shade of red."

I was already mortified, and to my shame I was starting to feel the tears come. My eyes were wet, and I accidentally made eye contact with him, and I'm sure I was the most pitiful mournful sight with my watery eyes. I remember his face was shocked, stunned, and confused – no man knows what to do with a crying woman, after all. I covered my face with my hands and sniffled, willing the tears not to come.

"Oh this won't do," he said softly. "This won't do at all, we have got to even this out." He scratched his cheek and rubbed his sideburn. "I didn't know this was a two way street."

I shook my head. "Just a one way street."

"You are cute when you're clueless."

"That's me," I said, self-deprecating, and tried to scoot away, sniffling again. "Clueless and –"

"Epie would you listen to me?" He sounded exasperated, and the big hands moved to pull me back to him. "You've got to stay near, this is survival." It was tough to know that you had to physically stay near him to survive, when emotionally you just wanted to do everything to avoid the upcoming awkward conversation. He put an arm around me, and looked into my eyes seriously. "Two way street. I been trying to ask you out for a month."

My cerebellum fused. Words failed me. – I'm a librarian, I curate words for a living, so that should tell you just how stunned I was. "Huh?" I said, inelegantly.

"Cupid was standing outside your super secret library, skipped the puny arrows, and hit me with a twelve gauge," he said simply, and I realized the tips of his pointed ears were turning red, his face a little pink. "But you've so obviously not returned my less than subtle hints."

I shook my head dumbly. "Subtle? What? I'm so confused."

"Lady," he said with a grin, not his usual smirk, his eyebrows up merrily on his forehead. "I have never been ignored by a woman except you. I even asked the shrink about you."

My mouth went dry. "You – you talked to the shrink? About – about me?" I remembered the conversation, just overheard at lunch, had it really been today, about him being overheard in session and how he was attracted to someone on the base and he didn't want to screw it up – that was me? He didn't want to screw it up with _me_?

He nodded, and looked uncomfortable. He reached up and scratched the back of his head. "Remember, I told you she said I was anti-social, and she's right." He looked at me uncertainly. "And I thought I was being pretty obvious, but you never let me in."

"No." I was flabbergasted. "No, I didn't know. I'm clueless." I put a hand to my face, then slipped it back under the sleeping bag, realizing it was cold out there. "You have to hit me over the head with a hammer or I won't notice."

He smiled then, a genuine smile. If a Major Sheppard smirk was enough to send PhDs tittering, then a genuine smile on John was enough to melt anyone's heart. "Eyes and ears open, Logan," he said firmly, green eyes dancing. "Always be observing."

"Observing what?"

He rolled those green eyes. "Everything." He then slid a hand up my back, which surprised me by making my belly warm inexplicably, and pulled me closer. "How's this for a hammer." And then he kissed me.

Have you ever kissed someone and you just knew? You just knew that it was right, and good, and that there would be no more restless nights wondering or waiting or hoping? That, as cheesy as it sounds, with that first kiss you knew that you'd found The One, the soul mate, the man you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with?

I knew as soon as John's lips pressed to mine. I knew that his description of the God of Love upgrading to modern weapons was beyond accurate, because I was blown away. I gasped, and showing his experience, he pressed his advantage and leaned in, body pressing to mine, and coaxed his way in. And all emotional hell broke loose, and in the space of those few seconds, or minutes, I knew.

I remember the smell of him, that night, his usual aftershave, the scratch of the stubble on his chin, the taste of dried sweat. His hand was cool, moved to cup my face, long fingers stroking my hair. I was lost, completely lost. There wasn't anything to hide between us, we were emotionally naked, both our arms wrapped around each other, him half on top of me, and there was definitely no hiding his desire for me pressing hard into my thigh.

Would we have gone all the way? We were both pretty hypothermic, so hard to tell because all the inhibitions were down, but for me, not usually on a first or even third date; I was pretty inexperienced in that regard. But while you might have heard a few rumors about Major Sheppard and his sexual appetite, what you haven't heard about was John's sense of duty and honor, and with great strength of will, he tempered that first kiss down, moved to snuggle my neck, and panted into my hair, gripping me to him.

We were both panting – not exactly what "buddy sleeping" meant or good for the tent liner. He looked at me, pushed my unruly hair off my face, an honesty in his eyes that was surprising for a guy who spent his life pushing people away. "That," he whispered, completely astonished, "was our last first kiss."

Could you die?

And then laying there in that tent, we just stared at each other, took each other in, almost as if we couldn't believe that this was really happening, and really happening to us. I could handle those intense hazel eyes now. His thumb stroked my cheek, my hand the back of his head. It was a quiet moment of lovely romance, of coming to grips with the emotions let loose from that kiss.

And then my body betrayed me by shivering.

"That's not good," John said worriedly, and he reached for our beanies, jamming one on my head and pulling one on his, and he hurriedly pulled my back to his chest. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Like I'd interrupt that?"

"Good point." He moved to tuck in the sleeping bag, pulled one over our heads, nudged me with his knee. "Curl up, Epie, knees to chest, atta girl." He rubbed my arm as another shiver went through me. "Not to worry, I won't let anything happen to you."

"Liar."

His head lifted, and I could feel his frown, could hear that he was insulted. "What?"

I smiled despite myself, eyes closing. "I just had my last first kiss, I'd say that was a very big thing to let happen to me."

He smiled into my neck, kissed that sensitive spot just behind my ear. "I said I won't let anything happen to you, but I didn't say I was going to protect you from me."

I started to giggle. "I should have read the fine print."

"You're a mess, and we need to get you warm."

I must be getting really hypothermic, because it was getting hard to stop giggling. "I dunno, things were pretty hot just now."

He laughed. "You are gonna keep me on my toes, aren't you."

"You're like two feet taller than me, I think I'm the one that's gonna be on my toes."

He snorted, and kissed my neck again. "I am going to let you win this battle of words, Epie, make a strategic retreat, and plan to win the war at a later time." He rubbed my arm again. "Rack time. Try and sleep."

I know, right? Complete and total Wormhole X-treme cliché – maybe there was even an episode like this, and if there wasn't, there should have been, because, hello, Wormhole X-treme. But the reality of it is that John never learned to talk about his feelings, and if it hadn't been for the extreme cold, which has been proven to lower all kinds of conscious barriers and open up to the subconscious, I doubt he would have ever said any of those things. Seriously it's the oddest sensation, a lot like being drunk.

Cliché, yes. Happy about that cliché happening to me? Hell yes!

I was vaguely aware of John awake behind me most of the night. He left the lantern on, checked the thermometer on his pack occasionally, checked the time, and checked my temperature. I dozed in and out, too cold to fall truly asleep, and felt his hand stroke over my forehead a few times, felt him tuck us in better with the sleeping bags.

I'm not going to lie. It was really cold. But John was there, and he wouldn't let anything happen to me. I was still safe and surprisingly, unafraid. Because he had promised he wouldn't let anything happen to me.

It was dark out when I woke, and a sudden chill and loss of warmth was what brought me back to consciousness, and heard John rummaging in the tent. He turned on the camp stove, was making more food, and while he was out replaced the battery in the lantern and light flooded the little tent again. He woke me up to eat, cleaned up, and put me back to bed, moving to ensure I was wrapped up in the sleeping bag and in his arms. "I got you, Epie," he breathed, kissed my neck. "I got you."

I smiled into the darkness, relieved, both that he was with me and that apparently I hadn't hallucinated that he'd said he'd been chasing after me for a month.

Hours later, it wasn't just me shivering. John looked at his watch, and sounded relieved. "Rescue should be on its way, sounds like the storm's moved off. You okay?"

A shiver racked my body. "Cold."

"I know." He redoubled his effort to pull me to him, but there wasn't anything more to be done.

We were dozing when we heard the sound of shovels, and John woke us up enough to get us dressed, both of us moving slowly and sluggishly, though John still seemed to have his wits about him. He didn't struggle to put on his mittens like I did, and he actually tied up my boots for me while I stood there still struggling with the mittens. He moved to zip up my parka, adjusted my beanie and hood, and then righted the mittens for me. He looked over me carefully, a very clear worried expression on his face. "You need a warming blanket."

"Yep," I said, feeling quite drunk, swaying on the spot.

He smirked, and kissed my nose. "You're really cute when you're out of it." He was looking in my eyes, his hazel ones dancing. "You're not gonna remember this in the morning, are you? Good. Because man I'm so glad we're dating now."

I think I grinned like a complete drunken idiot and sagged against him in lieu of a hug. And, ya know, I did remember in the morning, John – you're really cute when you think no one's gonna remember.

There was a strange voice calling to us outside the tent. "Major Sheppard? That you? You guys still conscious in here?"

"Yep," I said, as if he could hear me conversationally.

"Captain Hammersmith, it is good to hear your voice." Just like that John disappeared and Major Sheppard appeared, but there was no hiding the worry in his voice. "Logan's gonna need some medical attention, let's get her topside ASAP." John told me later I broke down in giggles, something about "topside" and "topless" that he completely missed, but promised to lord over me for several months.

"My pleasure, and after that, Major, you owe me a beer."

I vaguely remember being hauled out by my armpits like a seven year old kid, though I was so out of it, I can't even pretend I suffered the indignity of it, and the captain scooping me up and carrying me for the large two rotor copter. "Hi," I said drunkenly. "Thanks for the lift."

He snorted merrily. "You're very welcome. Come on, kid, you're out of it."

"Yep," I agreed whole-heartedly, and stretched, making the captain almost drop me.

John sat in the back of the helicopter in irritation, succumbing to the indignity of the medical exam with ill grace and impatience, and answering all the questions with an emphatic "I'm fine." I, on the other hand, was pretty close to passing out and a warming pad was spread out for me on a backboard and they wrapped me up worriedly. I have a feeling my pupils were two different sizes. I vaguely remember singing "what do you do with a drunken major" but I am too embarrassed to ask anyone to confirm that.

John said they had me on warming saline and a warming blanket in the infirmary for hours, slowly bringing my temperature up, and that Daniel came to see me, white as a ghost and relieved to see my sleeping form. John, of course, was medically cleared and sent to his quarters to rest.

What can I say, John was and is much better about emergency situations than I'll ever be.

.

 _Notes: "eyes and ears open" is a phrase that the friends has absorbed from Warehouse 13, and it's second nature now to use it, but thought I ought to give credit._

 _Stick with me, folks: John gets read into the SGC shortly, and Epic Epie arrives in Atlantis – her first trip through the wormhole was my favorite part to write._

 _Thank you so much for the reviews and the follows! I'm absolutely flattered! I figured a couple of you might comment but didn't expect quite this response. Thank you SO MUCH for your encouragement and constructive reviews!_


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